Bear Necessities (Bad Boy Alphas): A Post-Apocalyptic Bear Shifter Romance (4 page)

Sibyl recognized the desperation in the animal’s eyes. They were both trapped in a cage with no way out. The animal had paced and pawed and sniffed in every corner, frantically looking for escape, but it was futile. They were both railing against a force neither of them could overcome, throwing themselves against bars that would never break.

“My arrow aims true, lass,” Alistair growled into her ear, fingers digging deep into the flesh of her thigh, pulling her back against him so hard it jarred her teeth and nearly made her bite her tongue. There was something like steel against her backside, another bar of her cage, and she couldn’t bear it, not for another moment.

“Noooo!” she wailed, the cry coming from her throat unbidden as she twisted in his arms. Her protest was joined by another, keening wail, this one came from the wolf in the cage, who lifted its big, snowy head and howled, its nose touching the top bar. They were both crying in unison, she and this white wolf, eyes turned skyward, begging for their freedom.

“Ye’ll not deny me!” Alistair snarled, gripping her thigh so hard she knew he must be leaving marks. Her eyes never left the wolf. Its hackles were up, a low rumble coming from its throat. “Ye’re mine! Ya ken?”

“No!” Sibyl roared, yanking herself forward, out of his arms, and stumbled toward the cage. Her motion forced Alistair backward and she heard him trip and fall and she had a brief, fleeting hope he would hit his head on a rock and bloody himself to death.

The wolf gave a short, sharp bark, so near her ear it made her head ring with the sound, but she was already reaching for the latch, had already decided that dying here in this forest in the jaws of this beautiful animal was far preferable than being pawed by the creature behind her who called himself a man.

The bolt stuck. It had been in this place a long time, this cage, the latch rained on and rusted, and for a moment, she thought it wasn’t going to come open, and she would be the one undone here on the forest floor in a crush of bluebells, devastated under her betrothed’s rutting, animal lust.

She panted with the effort, the wolf pawing at the bottom of the cage, turning in circles in excitement, whining softly, and she heard Alistair swearing in Gaelic behind her, picking himself up from the forest floor and dusting himself off.

“This isn’t hunting!” She scowled as she pushed and pulled, and with one, final crack, the bolt shot back. “This is murder!”

Sibyl knew it was the end. She dropped to the forest floor and covered her head with her arms, knowing what was coming, preparing herself for it as best she could. She thought of her father, saw his face, the way he had beamed at her the first time she’d hit her mark with a longbow, the pride and delight there. He would have been proud of her today, defying her uncle’s plan for her, standing up to Alistair, setting the wolf free, even if it meant it would cost her everything. Even her life. An honorable death was preferable to being attached to the shameful excuse of a man she had been sold to.

But none of that meant she wasn’t terrified.

Sibyl’s whole body shook as she asked God for a quick death, whispering the words of a prayer over and over into the dirt, as if it could protect her from the bone-crunching, agonizing pain that was coming. The snarl of the wolf grew louder and she heard Alistair yell behind her, no words, just a short, sharp sound, as the wolf leaped out of its prison, clearing Sibyl’s huddled form in one bound. She felt the thud of its paws behind her and knew it was free.

“Get back!” Alistair warned and Sibyl heard the fear in his voice. It was trembling.

She forced herself to look, to glance behind her at the wolf, standing tall outside its cage now. If she had been standing, the top of the wolf’s head would have easily cleared her shoulder, maybe even higher. Alistair looked tiny in comparison as he crouched back against a tree. He had drawn a knife from his boot and was brandishing it at the wolf.

“Stay back!” he insisted in a strangled voice, looking over at Sibyl with wide eyes. “Yer bow! Throw me the bow!”

Sibyl had forgotten it again. The bow and quiver had slipped from her shoulder and rested on the forest floor. She snatched up the longbow, quickly pulling an arrow from the quiver, cocking it, drawing the string, and taking aim.

“Shoot it!” Alistair howled, still waving his dirk at the animal.

The wolf’s shoulders were hunched, head down, teeth bared, but it didn’t attack. Nor did it run. Sibyl wondered at this as the animal turned its head to look back at her. Those blue eyes shifted from hers to the bow she held in her hands, as if it understood she was holding a weapon, and what that meant.

“Sibyl! Shoot it!” Alistair insisted, lashing out at the wolf with his knife, slicing the animal’s hide across its chest. Blood bloomed in stark contrast to its white fur.

The wolf howled, reacting instantly, its teeth sinking into Alistair’s forearm and shaking the dagger loose. It sailed some distance away, landing at the feet of Fian. The big, black steed had backed as far away as was possible on his tether and Sibyl noted that Winnie was gone altogether, back down the forest path, presumably headed toward home. That meant she had no horse upon which to escape and cursed herself for her thoughtlessness in not tying the animal up. She would just have to take Alistair’s, she decided.

Sibyl stood, bow still drawn taut, taking careful aim. This was her one chance and she wasn’t going to waste it.

A shout to her right, coming from the direction of the stream, startled her, making her heart leap up high into her throat, but it didn’t sway her aim. She knew it was likely one of Alistair’s men but she didn’t care. She would be on Fian and away before they caught her.

Sibyl’s arrow found its mark.

The wolf howled, bounding off, and Alistair screamed, a high-pitched sound that echoed in the quiet woods, making the horse behind her whinny and yank at his tether.

Sibyl lowered her bow, staring into her betrothed’s wide, pained eyes.

“Ye shot me,” Alistair croaked, staring at her in disbelief and then looking over to see his forearm pinned to the tree on his right, an arrow sunk clean through his flesh and deep into the tree’s bark.

“My arrow aims true, too, ya ken?” Sibyl kept the tremble from her voice, eyes blazing. She didn’t take her gaze off him as she picked up the quiver and slung it and the bow across her shoulder. “I could have killed you. Remember that.”

She turned to grab Fian’s reins and ran into the bare chest of a man with thick, dark hair almost as long as her own. Sibyl barely reached his shoulder and she looked up, up, into the man’s face, into his bright blue eyes, her breath catching in her throat. He was a Scot, but he was not one of Alistair’s men, of that she was sure. He wore only a Scot’s tartan plaid, wrapped and belted at his waist, part of it pulled like a sash across his broad, bare chest.

“I… I must…” Sibyl struggled to find her voice, wrestled her mind for words that would make sense when strung together all in a row. The man’s presence was disarming enough, but the look in those bright blue eyes made her knees feel wobbly under her skirts. “Be… be away.”

The man didn’t speak, but his look pinned her to the spot. She was mindful of her surroundings—of Alistair’s cries for help, of the big, black horse that had pulled free from his tether and had turned to gallop back up the forest path, of the sound of men and dogs and horses in the distance—but she was far more aware of her own body than she’d ever been before in her life. Her blood rushed through her veins, her heart its hot, thudding pump, lungs pulling in breath in fast, cooling gulps, limbs tingling, torso a burning inferno, as if the man’s look alone had caused her body to catch fire.

“Ye’ll pay for this!” Alistair roared, writhing in pain on the ground. He was trying to work the arrow out of the tree with his other hand, but it was buried halfway in. The trees in these woods were yielding, their trunks soft with the dampness that permeated this land, and Sibyl knew just from looking at it, the arrow would have to be clipped.

“I must be away,” she whispered, hearing the sounds of the men, dogs and horses growing nearer, knowing the repercussions for what she had done would be severe if she was caught here in these woods still wielding the longbow that had impaled her future husband through his forearm.

But her means of escape had, well, escaped. Both Winnie and Fian had disappeared down the path and she had no choice but to attempt her flight on foot. She turned to run, knowing she didn’t have long, but she was waylaid once again by the stranger’s bare chest. He had somehow sidestepped and appeared in front of her, even though she was now facing the opposite direction, heading deeper into the woods.

“Tiugainn!” The man spoke Gaelic, a dialect she only remotely understood, but his meaning was clear enough in the way he took her by the elbow and steered her down the path. At least, Sibyl thought as she struggled to keep up with his long strides, they were headed in the right direction.

“Let me go!” she cried, trying to shake out of his grip, but it was no use.

The man’s enormous hand easily encircled her upper arm and the strength in it was surprising. He pulled her along and she stumbled after him, unable to yank herself free. The dark-haired stranger didn’t follow the path. He steered them to the right, through the trees, where the underbrush was thick and the hem of Sibyl’s dress caught on branches and made her falter. The sound of the stream grew louder as they traveled deeper into the forest.

Sibyl felt a rage growing in her belly, now that the wolf was gone and she knew she wasn’t going to die—and least, not imminently—and they had vanished far enough down the path that Alistair’s voice had grown dim. She could no longer hear his men approaching on horseback, and the sound of the dogs was faint.

Beside her, the half-naked Scotsman finally stopped, cocking his head and listening. His hair fell like a black waterfall over his broad, brown shoulders, eyes narrowing, shifting from side to side, a gesture she knew from years of being taught how to stay aware of her surroundings by her father. He was scanning, looking for movement, listening, perhaps, for anyone pursuing them, but Sibyl wasn’t going to stay around long enough to find out. She’d had enough of being pawed by one man or the other.

“Let me go!” she insisted, taking advantage of his hesitation to finally wrench herself free.

She began to stalk away from him, the satchel under her skirts heavy, weighing her down. Once she was away from this stranger, she would stop to unpin it. The longbow and quiver were still slung over her shoulder, and for that she was grateful. Once she had found a place to cross the stream and she’d left any trace of her scent behind, a certain dead end for the dogs Alistair would surely send after her, she would start looking for game.

“Ow!” Sibyl complained when the stranger grabbed her again, and this time not just by the arm. He had her from behind, the way Alistair had held her against him in front of the wolf’s cage, but her reaction was far different on this occasion. The stranger’s body was big, muscular, his arms easily enveloping her small frame. “You big, dumb oaf! Let me go!”

She had no idea if he understood her, but she thought she sensed his demeanor change at her words. Still, he didn’t loosen his hold and no matter how much she struggled, there was no way to break free.

“If you don’t let me go, I’m going to scream!” Sibyl cried, wriggling in his arms. This only made the man tighten his grip, which left her gasping for breath.

“Bidh sàmhach!” he growled in her ear. She didn’t know what that meant either but she could guess.

The stream was visible ahead, rushing over crags and rocks, the current strong and steady. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the rushing water, but the man stood completely still. Something had drawn his attention, but she wasn’t sure what.

“Could you… just… let me go…” Sibyl managed, drawing short, painful breaths, her ribcage aching from the way he held her so tightly. “I—”

“Bidh sàmhach!” he insisted again, this time shaking her. She felt like a rag doll in his arms. Closing her eyes, she listened too, straining to hear what had captured his attention, but there was nothing but the water surging over the rocks.

“Thank the Lord,” she muttered when the man’s arms loosened and she could breathe again. She rubbed her aching sides, scowling back at the giant brute. “I don’t know who you are, but I am perfectly capable of—”